


Road Work

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Bitter Samgirl Club Secret Santa, Canonical Character Death, Child Neglect, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5581336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>writerly-werewolf / caroling-claire-novak prompted Sam and the following: singing, writing (poetry, creative writing, or a journal), baking, hot cocoa, happiness, and cats.</p><p>The road ahead is seldom smooth.</p><p>Author’s Note: This is horrendously late, and also it’s 12K. I am very, very sorry. Happy New Year!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road Work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [story_telling_sage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_telling_sage/gifts).



There was a deep pit inside Sam’s stomach like a pothole that couldn’t be passed and left behind on the road, and Dad’s music grated more than usual. Sam cracked the window and imagined flying away like the crows were doing in the fall air, instinctual and free.  


He couldn’t believe Dad had had _another_  falling out, this time with Travis. Rage sat cold in Sam’s gut and hot in his face behind his eyes, his cheeks, in his set and silent teeth. 

Why was Dad such a disappointment? And why was he so consistent about it? And why was Sam still surprised?

What good did it do to know why they traveled now? It didn’t stop the winding roads, the ancient cassette tapes, the awkward tension and the need to flee. It didn’t even stop John’s disapproval! And if Sam fled, he’d have nowhere to go. Nowhere was probably still better than where he was at, so it was a situation that deserved some cautious thought no one could know about, but he wished he had friends of his own instead of hand-me-downs-except-not-really-even-his all across the country who believed in John as a parent. 

Only a handful of words and grunts had passed between Sam and Dad since the Impala had left Travis’s behind with an air of “good riddance”, but each knew the blame laid squarely on the other’s shoulders. Sam’s heart was secretly rage-breaking all over again to the sound of another song about casual sex, and everything felt cramped, loud, and too close to John Winchester.

Dean shot Sam a few disapproving glances amidst his casual silence. He knew he wasn’t in trouble, and he was shrugging off any feelings he might have had about Dad getting in yet another fight, like it was normal that all the relationships they were allowed to have were paper thin and cracked in the sun, like it was okay that they never had a place to stop flying and rest because their nest was on wheels their father probably cared about more than he cared about his youngest fledgling.

Dean didn’t even say anything when Dad left to check into the motel, just got out and started gathering the luggage, waiting for Sam to come out so he could load his arms up. Sam scowled and took the bags’ weight personally.

When they got “settled” into the new place after a few minutes of quick order-following, Dad was on his way out already, apparently disgusted by Sam’s presence like Sam was disgusted by his, not to mention probably also upset they were at another fleabag motel.

Dad didn’t spare Sam a goodbye before, during, or after his patented “Listen to Me, Dean” speech, and Sam would have been uncomfortable if he had. Sam wasn’t _worth_ the two seconds it would’ve took to say goodbye, in John’s eyes. 

It didn’t usually make Sam feel so nauseous.

John was going out for a drink, cause staying in to drink wasn’t gonna do the trick, and his children, Sam had realized, were not a source of comfort to him (not even the “good” one). 

All Sam had to say to that was: Likewise.

At least when John was gone for _that_  reason, Sam knew John would be safe. Even though John tended to be a very mean drunk, which left Sam not exactly safe, sometimes even left Dean that way, at least Sam would know their one tie to the real world would still be around to tether them blindly to it yet another day.

Sam looked over at Dean, the only real constant he had besides the car, for long, precious minutes that kept slipping away, wanting to talk about what happened with Travis with a need so tangible he couldn’t take in a full breath. 

It hadn’t been fair, and it hadn’t been right, and Sam was really scared that if they all died tomorrow from a police-photo-brutal attack, no one would even care about them enough to stop whatever they were doing when they found out. Even worse, they might end up just like Dad, in a world where nothing mattered that was good, and Dean was already half-way there. How much longer could Sam hold out caring about things like friends, like people who weren’t Dean and Dad only, like _soccer_? 

It had to be normal to care! He could just scream! He and Dean could never agree on what to talk about or when to talk about it, and a scream would just draw Dean’s attention and maybe his wrath, and Dean was never willing to listen to anything regarding Dad or Dad’s friends, and Dean was never supportive when it was Dad who was doing the hurting, so Sam held onto the urge to talk so tightly it burned his throat. 

Like a victim of the most reliable hypno-ray, and with no scream from Sam to distract him, Dean was already deep into the escapism of the television. The television could have done that for Sam too, or at least it could have before he found out about the monsters that were real. Sam knew Dean knew Sam was staring, that Dean was ignoring it, and that should have made Sam want to give up, should have warned him away because all Dean was going to offer him was criticism, but not talking was _so much more lonely._  

Talking would get him nowhere in the end, but the path from where he was at back to the same place or worse would have been so sweet, such a release of the terrible realities and sickening what-ifs. At least someone else would _know_!

All he’d done was mention he wished he could go to school more. Travis had asked what he was learning, and wanting to go more had been in his response, sandwiched between facts and fields of study, and by the time he’d been backed into a verbal corner about their infrequent forays into the educational system, it was too late for anyone to prevent the fallout.  

He’d never do that again. This was where aspiration got you, and where honesty led. John’s way was the only way that was allowed, and Sam was the only one who ever had a problem with it, and Sam was the only one who suffered on a regular basis. He’d never forget to lie about school again.

Sam watched the television change scenes, but he didn’t register the plot points at all. There was a buzzing in his ears that felt familiar, like a security blanket he was rightfully disgusted with himself for wanting.

All Sam could think, as the precious Dadless minutes ticked away, was that he needed someone to talk to or he was going to lose his battle against the dark thoughts that were trying to break him down and turn him into whatever the hell John had become.

***

Sam continued to watch scenes he couldn’t concentrate on enough to string together while Dean walked to the corner store for stuff they’d need again all too soon. The fictional locations blurred into each other, and his mind soon wandered to the blurring real-life locations, the blurring real-life characters of John’s friends, all the bridges Sam had never asked for and never wanted to meet but John had burnt all the same. 

The hot tears finally surfaced in the privacy of the television’s glow.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked. Sam looked over to where Dean should have been sitting, on the other end of the couch.   


Sam knew where the gun was, the gun John had given him to use. He eyed the newcomer, fear creeping up only very slowly, his experience with the supernatural still highly limited. The gun wasn’t _close_ , not compared to how close the _man_  was, but Sam still knew where it was. “Not really,” Sam answered. “Hey, you need to leave, or my brother might actually kill you.”

The man shook his head. “I’m not worried. You’re the only one who can see me.”

Sam blinked. “Why’s that?” Dread started at his stomach, fighting the heat of the anger, and worked its way out. It was because he was strange, and bad, and something John always had to keep an eye on. John was right, every time he got on Sam’s case. Monsters were going to attach themselves to Sam, and it was never going to end. 

“I’m a friend. I’m an...imaginary friend.” Slightly embarrassed at the term himself, it seemed, Sully offered a smile.  


The dread of his own wrongness stopped in its well-trod tracks, not dissipating, but not spreading anymore. “Oh.” Sam eyed the man with the rainbow suspenders carefully. “Okay,” he said. He decided he’d talk and make him stick around just in case Dean _could_ see him too. Then they could deal with him together.

***

“I’m Sam.”  


“Sully.” He offered his hand, which Sam shook. It felt real enough, which was almost enough to start the dread moving again. He swallowed, and it stayed where it was.  


“I’m not okay,” Sam admitted again. “I’m not okay. My brother’s about to be back, but...I’m tired of moving around. I’m tired of not being able to tell anyone. I’m tired of our friends being Dad’s friends, but Dad always fighting with them and ruining everything. We never have anything nice, I mean, just look at this place.” He sniffed, knowing he was crying again, but it didn’t matter. Getting to say it out loud felt too good for that to bother him.  


“The world is just darker than I thought it was,” Sam added more quietly. “I like knowing...what I know,” he couldn’t explain the whole monsters thing, “because that means the secrets Dad and Dean always had are supposed to stop. Maybe we can be a real family now.”  


“Because you aren’t a real family yet.” Sully was watching Sam and not the television, gaze steady. He wasn’t asking Sam whether it was true, he was acknowledging what Sam was telling him. 

He was _believing_  Sam.

Sam turned back toward the glow of the TV, uncomfortable all of a sudden. Very few people believed Sam at all, and of those, who had believed Sam over John? He could only remember Bobby and Pastor Jim, and neither was a guarantee.

Sam wasn’t sure what else to say, wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk about any of it anymore. He felt awkward, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands, which was the way he felt on the first day of a new school, the way he’d felt during the first shooting lesson just two months back when John had made sure he’d barely had time to breathe from the revelation of what life was really like to the start of the unnatural training sessions and certainly no time to really get his bearings. That lack of bearings seemed favorable to John, important even.

Sam enjoyed the lack of further questions from the “imaginary friend.” He wasn’t looking forward to explaining Sully’s presence, but righteous anger over a monster being on the couch would be better than the righteous anger Dean already had. After all, he wouldn’t think Samhad let the monster in.

Dean was completely oblivious to the intruder’s presence, though, and almost sat right on Sully. Sully moved over to the middle cushion easily, hanging around for a few minutes of observation before eventually disappearing, brow furrowed about something Sam wasn’t too concerned about. According to Dad, Dean not being able to see something Sam swore he could should have been incredibly upsetting (especially if he started sensing energy like that psychic a few towns back), but it wasn’t. Maybe Sam was just a normal kid with a normal brain trying to handle normal emotional problems. Maybe that vivid imagination that had him worrying about Dad going on hunts was finally doing something positive.

***

“So, he’s staying for another few days,” Sam said, trying not to let on how much this scared him. Say they lost John to one of the recklessly frequent hunts. Say Dean’s “hero” was ripped apart by the monsters they couldn’t tell anyone normal about. How would they adjust to the real world without Dad’s rules and constant pressure, especially Sam, who basically lived to defy? No one else would understand them. Even the other hunters were too different from John’s family. Even the ones with kids.  


“I am so sorry, Sam,” said Sully, the sincerity comforting but a little troublesome. Dean hardly ever acknowledged that John’s absence was cause for feeling sad, and he certainly never apologized for it. Sully sided with Sam on what things were sad, and he seemed to mean well. It made Sam feel a little more unsure, though, to be agreed with. He was used to questioning everything in his world, and that included his own thoughts and feelings.

Sully could see Sam’s inner conflict, and rather than ignoring it like Dean would or accusing him of not caring about the family like John would, he said, “Maybe we can find something to take your mind off it. What do you say?” 

“What do you mean? TV?”  


“Naw. Something more active. Like singing.” Sam eyed him for a moment. Sully was from a world of rainbows and unicorns. Sometimes it really showed.  


“I can’t sing!” Sam exclaimed, eyeing the man in disbelief. Sure, Sully was imaginary, but what self-respecting (pretend) adult man was going to suggest singing? It wasn’t something you did outside the context of singing along to ancient cassette tapes or maybe acting in a school play. Mary had apparently sung nicely, but Sam was a far cry from Mary.

He felt angry all of a sudden, thinking about how she had died by his crib and how John secretly blamed him. “They never give me a solo, and they don’t call on me in music class. I know I can’t sing. So leave it alone.”  


“I can’t either,” Sully said boldly. “It’s not about that. It’s about the _feeling_ of singing, Sam.”  


“No.” Sam was starting to trust Sully more and more, but it just didn’t make sense. That, and it seemed painful to try and force singing to be some sort of cure, when Mary was absolutely dead.  


“Do you mind if I do it?”  


Sam glanced over at the clock radio on the nightstand. Dean had commandeered it right off, playing old songs that echoed the old traditions of the family (both of which John thought of as classics though they grated on Sam), and Sam had barely noticed.

“No, I don’t mind,” Sam said. “Go ahead.” 

Sully’s voice was clear and filled the room easily. He had a quiet enthusiasm that drew Sam’s attention and didn’t spoil his singing the way Dean’s enthusiasm tended to spoil Dean’s singing, but he couldn’t hold a tune as well as Dean. Somehow, it didn’t matter. Sam appreciated it, as the song went on, as the second one started. He relaxed, sitting at the edge of the bed, watching Sully.

Dean said Mom used to sing lullabies. Maybe this was what it was like to be comforted by someone who just wanted to sing.

***

“What Dad says goes,” Dean had said in the kingdom of cold, white tile and shining mirrors as they sat in matching thrones. Dean’s words had been just as cold, the mirrors leaving Sam incredibly exposed and, embarrassingly, scared. Months of knowing about monsters, of being afraid of everything, seeing it all in a new light, had come together to freak him about about _this_ , about his hair and his lack of control over it or anything else in life.

Dean was wrong to agree with Dad, and Dad was really wrong to do this. Sam had been born, yes, and, hell, maybe he’d had something to do with his mom’s death, who really knew, but he had never asked to be in the Winchester Marines, and the draft was supposed to be dead. 

He didn’t want to lose any more of himself. But he had to, had to watch and not watch at awkward intervals as a stranger just doing his job committed what felt like a violation of Sam’s being. He knew where the real blame lay, but he resented the stranger by extension.

An assassinated prince, Sam was livid, tears hot on his face, and they just kept coming. He had been stripped of his dignity and, what was worse, of.... Sam touched his head in mourning as he huddled under the covers, feeling how short the hair was and dreading how long it would take to grow back. John had taken his last line of defense away.

“There. That’s more like it,” John had said when he saw it. More like what, Sam had to wonder. After all, John didn’t know who Sam was. He never had.

When the space between the bed and the covers was too stuffy and couldn’t contain his sadness anymore, Sam went out to the stretch of woods behind the house they were renting. He was allowed to do this because John was home and Sam had not disappeared beyond yelling distance. At least John hadn’t yelled since they’d returned. Sam would have said things John would have made him almost regret.

In no time, Sully appeared. It always just took Sam being alone and lonely, and he was there. The man, full of wisdom and positive thinking, noticed pain right away. How many others in Sam’s life were incapable of doing the same? “Your hair?” Sully asked. He knew Sam had been growing it out since the December night he’d found out about monsters. Sam had quietly declined multiple trips to the barber, even for a trim. He’d told Sully in passing, and Sully remembered.

Sam could only shake his head in response, lost. Sully put a gentle arm on Sam’s shoulder, putting all his concern into the gesture. Sam had explained months before that he didn’t like hugs. That didn’t mean Sam didn’t feel like he needed one all the same, though. 

Sam reached for Sully with both arms, burying his face in the man’s big shoulder like he never did with Dad, Dad being a creature of force and fear instead of healthy concern or warmth. The old Sam, the one with innocence who didn’t know any better, would have gone to Dean, even though Dean had been mean about Dad and Dad’s wishes. Dean seemed scarier now, though, as someone who had known about monsters before he’d stepped foot in a kindergarten. How was Sam supposed to relate to that? 

Sam had thought knowing about what made Dad and Dean have secrets would fix everything, would make him part of their group. If anything, the knowledge had created more distance. They still didn’t tell him enough, and ordered him around too much. They still didn’t love him enough. And, what’s worse, they didn’t need him.

***

Sam could beg an extra piece of candy or a later bed time out of his older brother if he played his cards right, and could get even more out of someone like Pastor Jim or Uncle Bobby, but he’d had no success at getting to come with his family on hunts, no matter how many arguments he put forth about his own capabilities. Did he _want_  to hunt monsters? No. Who would want to? But he’d spent too much time alone in motels waiting impatiently for the next phone call for him to want to remain perpetually left behind.

When they finally gave in, finally invited him to come along, he could hardly believe it. It meant they _did_ need him. He ended up fighting with Sully, who chose to keep being supportive of Sam’s vision to live a peaceful life. It was more important to not be lonely, he tried to explain. A guy could only sustain himself for so long with the help of his imagination. He didn’t need Sully anymore. 

Things would be good, starting with the bus stop he was heading toward. He was so full of hope that the trip to see Dad and Dean again, to finally join them and belong, made up for the fact he’d just told his best friend in the world to beat it. 

He was in heaven already. Dean had said they needed Sam’s help to research, and he loved research, and Dad had promised he wouldn’t cut Sam’s hair again. Dad made empty promises like other parents made paychecks, and it’d always been easier for Sam to notice them and talk about them than for Dean. But, since Sam was on a bus instead of staying all alone in a strange city in a musty place he didn’t have any part in choosing, at least one promise from Dad was already ringing true. 

Sam was no longer an outcast. He was part of the group. He had to give up on Sully and, for the time being, on peace, but that was a price he could pay. 

***

Dean’s familiar words of goodbye, his warnings, were straight out of John’s book. John still didn’t have the decency to say goodbye to Sam and impart them himself. Sam’s expression grew blank, a wall forming between himself and the rest of his family because, yes, he was ten years old, and, yes, he was technically “with” them now, but the distance couldn’t be more clear now that they were leaving him _again_. 

He’d given up Sully so carelessly, and for what? He sat in the creaking rocking chair and tried to summon the imaginary friend, who had never needed any summoning before, only to find his imagination was as broken as his heart. He resolved himself, for about the third time, to try and forget about Sully. 

He’d need something to occupy himself, though. He could never go back to blindly accepting his own loneliness. He would demand (well, beg, and plead) to be allowed to go to school regularly at each town they invaded, since he couldn’t take the wasted time and empty rooms anymore. He wanted an education, a chance to do something other than receive insulting instructions from John or wither away watching television by himself. He wanted company, too. Sully had almost felt like a real-life friend, and Sam would need more.

***

After John’s casual dismissal of what was achingly important to him (one casual dismissal in a long, sad list), Sam had wasted no time getting his way in the door of the school via lies, smiles, and forged signatures. It was so effortless it was as if someone had trained him to be so illegally manipulative. Oh, wait! Someone had.

The sting on the side of his face felt like it would never die down as he sniffed softly and rocked in the chair. Every smack, every punch from the man, every insult, felt like a plea John was making with the universe for Sam not to have to be a part of the family anymore. Except, then he’d start talking about how they had to stick together and how he had to keep his children safe. Which was it, then? Sam was tired of John trying to figure it out. He was just tired. Nothing truly changed for them, only intensified.

Logically, it had only been a matter of time. What could Sam really have done to avoid John finding out? They tended to travel to small towns, and John tended to get close with the locals so they’d keep an eye out. The illusion of freedom he’d had while alone and waiting may have actually been more than an illusion. 

“You...just can’t do that, Sammy,” Dean said, looking a little pained as he watched Sam rock. “You have to ask Dad about school. You can’t just _go_.”  


Sam glared at Dean, gaze so chokingly hot and offended that Dean actually faltered, then looked toward the door. “I’ll go,” he said, to Sam’s surprise. 

Maybe it was clear to him, at least, that school was Sam’s only chance at purpose for the time being. 

Memories of Dean cooking over hot burners for them before Sam could reach the stove well enough, something Dean hadn’t done for him in years, came at Sam, then convinced him to tamp down on his suspicion about the mug of hot chocolate. Dean waited by Sam’s rocking chair with the mug, making it clear that he had gone out of his way, which made Sam suspicious again. Everything seemed dangerous nowadays, seemed to have strings attached to it and quiet agreements to give up all his freedoms. If there was one thing Sam hated, it was strings. 

If there was another thing Sam hated, it was being at the mercy of Dad or Dean, because they used their advantages until he learned not to ask for anything unless he was prepared for punishment.

“He doesn’t trust people,” Dean said as Sam finally accepted the offer.  


There it was. The drink meant he had to listen to Dean explain why John was such a loser. It tasted good, though. Sam calmed himself and sipped gratefully as he waited for Dean to finish whatever he was trying to say.

Dean didn’t usually play peacekeeper unless it was to tell Sam not to bother John. Every once in a while, though, he did his best to keep Sam and John from fighting, which was, admittedly, not easy, so Sam didn’t know why Dean bothered, or, really, why it bothered Dean. Ever since Sam had been able to form questions, ever since Sam had realized John wasn’t fair at all, he had been loud, and punishable, and a breaker of peace. Sometimes, seeing how it hurt Dean, he felt bad. But there was enough need for survival in the way he fought that he let himself keep speaking up, afraid if he didn’t he’d lose what made him Sam.

“We’re all we really need. At least, we should be.” The barest hint of reproach was crystal clear, expertly nearly-disguised as indifference. Sam knew better.  


“It’s important,” he told Dean. “What if we want a job at some point? What if we need a high school diploma?” He didn’t mention that school was fun, because Dean didn’t think so. He didn’t mention that he needed friends now, because Dean didn’t think so. He didn’t mention that it was legal because legality had no sway over Dean unless the law was John’s. 

“You’re ten. What do you care?”  


Sam sighed. He’d have to bring up at least one of the other reasons. He took a sip to stall.

The door creaked open decisively wide, and John stood in its doorway, letting his presence stop the conversation, letting it pull all the attention in the room to him and what he thought.

“Get out of here, Dean,” said John, and Sam knew that look. It was worse than the anger before he struck, because that was honest, and that had very little to do with Sam’s pride. John was going to “help Sam out”. He was going to be “the good guy”.  


He wasted no time. Sam’s ears started ringing in that I’m-not-here way for a while when he was told he would be allowed to go to school regularly. He soothed himself with the warm, sweet drink to give him something besides John to experience. Maybe John had even suggested the hot chocolate; who knew? 

Sam accepted the change as humbly as he could manage, figuring John had decided it was too much trouble trying to keep Sam from something they were supposed to be legally doing anyway. He held his breath until John left him the hell alone.

Sam wished that he could tell Sully about the “win”, since he deserved an update. Sam was reminded, too, of something else he’d always told Sully he wanted, besides a chance to go to school more often: marshmallow nachos. He didn’t have that; they’d never had the ingredients for it at the same time in the past, and asking Dean for anything was both too humiliating and tended to make Dean want to hold it over him forever.

He’d given up on them, by now, much like he’d given up on Sully. He was going to find a way to do something more than hunt with his life, even if he had to hunt too. He was going to do some honest living. He was going to make himself proud, even if his family refused to be proud too or even acknowledge his needs.

***

Kids were still drawn to Sam at school when he went, despite the bitterness and rage he could feel becoming a part of him. Each friend he made at school added to the pain of leaving, made leaving even worse than before That Night because school made his life seem normal and almost safe, but it was interesting to know that people found him worth meeting and finding out about, and not just because he was a novelty.

School offered Sam a sense of routine and a sense of purpose he’d never had anywhere else in his life (except maybe with Sully). He accepted that as he went to school more he was required to extend his training with John, the difficulty and frequency becoming truly bothersome. If he was able to talk openly, freely with John, he would let him know he shouldn’t be afraid Sam would forget John’s purpose for his life, the family’s purpose in life. 

He sent bullets into targets that sometimes looked like John. He did homework with diligence and felt untouchable by John’s world, even as he lived in the gun-oiled and salted pits of it. He studied the required lore, wondering if he might be able to pick up some Latin along the way because it reminded him of the Knights of the Round Table. He wrote with passion to let off steam, and solved math problems as a form of escape from words, many of which had double meanings, many of which John had tailored to his own devices.

Sam worked hard to better himself, hoping that it was possible he could be better than what he was, which was, by all accounts of those who truly knew who he was, a world-class failure at eleven. 

***

A sense of purpose, it turned out, was more a distraction from oneself than an actual key to happiness. Sam was trying to be content with a life of distraction, especially after discovering that Dean didn’t hunt either, just went with John and waited in the car or read lore at a library. This fact felt like an incredible betrayal, even for Dean and John’s record of not giving Sam a second thought, but Sam stored the feelings in the dark part of himself he hadn’t been allowed to examine and had barely been able to touch. 

Dean’s first official hunt was the first one they went on together, Sam twelve and Dean sixteen, and afterward, Sam couldn’t look at any dog the same way for a year. There was something more terrifying to come than seeing Dean be chased by a Skinwalker, though, and more terrifying than seeing him kill the Skinwalker with a crossbow as it turned on Sam. 

Dad’s anger was something to take note of, of course. He’d trained them for hunting since Sam was nine, since Dean was six or seven, but somehow it seemed the fantasy of their "strength” or “heroism” that kept John moving them from place to place and the unkind reality of their actually getting hurt in the process of taking on a vicious dog person had fought inside like alcohol and greasy diner food and come out as a pungent and embarrassing mess.

Dean was slammed against the kitchen walls with their peeling wallpaper, his arms gripped so hard the bruising haunted Sam over the next few days, Dean’s arms exposed by his t-shirt’s sleeves in the summer heat. Sam screamed and yelled at John, unable to ignore the cruelty after seeing Dean nearly die, only to get knocked onto his ass and trapped, breathless and scrabbling, in the windowless bathroom for hours by a busted love seat. Indignant, he’d screamed from there too. A late bloomer, he was incredibly outmatched in brute strength, if not in his roiling anger.

By the next morning, John was probably feeling guilty, the alcohol-soaked nightmare of a man, because he ran off to the most brutal hunt he could find. It was something that ate people, Dean told Sam, and Sam darkly suspected John was hoping to feed _something_ in the world, if he couldn’t feed his own children.

As if to prove Sam’s point, the money ran out again. Dean got that twitchy sort of look, that exasperated tone that meant there was nothing Dean could do about their lack of food.

“We can ask a neighbor, you know. Or I bet a church nearby has a food pantry,” Sam said. Dean’s eyes considered those options with a strange reverence, actually wanting to see where the kindness of strangers might get them, even though that was not allowed. It was almost like they really were brothers again, an odd sort of team ever since their first hunt together. The lid to the tight jar Dean kept on that sort of thought resealed, and he told Sam exactly where he could shove ideas like that. 

Then he punched Sam, hard, in the chest. And Sam kept his hands to himself, like usual, not even very angry. Those arms of Dean’s that were easy to see in the strange kitchen’s lighting were bruised and John was never truly out of their lives, no matter how far he went.

None of that, it turned out, was the truly terrifying part. That part was the moment Sam realized Dean had completely disappeared. It took one frantic call to John for the man to show up and start tearing apart the contents of Dean’s duffle for any clues, heedless of their value, sentimental or otherwise. John was more angry about Dean than he was worried for his safety, or maybe he was guilty and it came out as anger, neither of which should have surprised Sam, but they still did. Surely, other fathers would have reacted differently.

John forced Sam out onto the porch for a while, which made Sam nervous, but Sam could see him talking on the phone through a slim crack in the curtains. When John finally unlocked the front door again to let Sam in, it was with a strange coolness, a calm that was such a stark contrast to the anger Sam was momentarily afraid he might be face to face with a Shifter. 

He shook himself; he’d been reading too much lore.

Bags packed quickly between the two of them, Sam tried to concentrate as he read his book for school the backseat with a flashlight. “Might just be me and you now, kid,” John said in the light of mostly the moon with a few streetlamps here and there.   


Sam felt uncomfortable with the scenario, and with the delivery. A world without Dean was worse than one with Dean. He loved his brother, despite their differences. They had just started to connect again too, after hunting had come between them. He didn’t really blame Dean for wanting to go along with John, not most of the time, anyway. Dean liked peace, and thought that was how to get it.  


"Where are we going?” Sam finally asked, afraid of the too-calm John in a way that made the place Dean had punched his chest ache. 

“2194, Sam,” John started. Sam wracked his brain, which had been nearly drowning in fear for Dean.

“Uncle Bobby’s,” Sam finally said, keeping as much emotion out of his tone as possible.  


“Bingo.” The tone was almost jovial.   


***

“Who’s this?” Sam asked, just barely in the door. A blue gaze met his own, and they stared each other down.  


“Who?” Uncle Bobby had the rest of Sam’s stuff. “Oh, that’s Dax. Call her over, like this.” He made some low noises with his mouth that the cat seemed to pick up on.

“Hmm.” Sam tried it too, without success. 

“Keep trying,” Uncle Bobby said. “It took her a while to warm up to me too.”

By the time Sam had finished unpacking just a few of his things into the spare bedroom upstairs, he was sitting, silent, reflective. Too reflective. He wasn’t going to see Dean ever again, was he? Maybe he’d never see John again either, which, if it meant living with Bobby, might actually be nice, but that was the kind of thinking that totally pissed Dean off. 

What had happened to Dean? 

Dax tiptoed into the room through the open doorway, and Bobby wasn’t too far behind her. “What would help?” the hunter asked. Sam had heard that question before. It was what he would consider...a classic. 

He turned away, intent on finding something for Uncle Bobby to fix, just like when he was little. “How about some hot chocolate?” he offered.

“I’ll make you the real deal,” Uncle Bobby agreed.   


It was the summer, of course, but neither of them thought the request was too strange to fulfill. Uncle Bobby never made Sam feel as strange as his family made sure he felt.

“I’ll join you,” the man said upon his return, setting two mugs on the bedside table and sitting down at the edge of the bed. “So, what’s that?” Bobby reached for the book Sam had finished in the car.

“ _The Outsiders_ ,” Sam said, handing it over easily. “Speaking of, can we go to the library tomorrow? I finished it, and I need another one for school.”

“Sure,” Bobby said. He actually liked taking Sam or Dean to the library or out to the store. He didn’t get out much most of the time, it seemed. He had a lot of pain in his past, and strange feelings associated with the concept of family, too. Even though Sam called him uncle, they thought of each other more as old friends a lot of the time. It was easier that way.   


“School, huh? Finally convinced him to let you go regular?” Sam nodded as Bobby leafed through the book. “I heard of this book. You gotta do a report or anything?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. He wasn’t sure when he’d be back at the school John had just driven him away from. “Maybe?”

“I’ll read it too,” Bobby said in solidarity, setting the book beside him on the bed.  


"Will you tell me some stories, Uncle Bobby?” Sam asked. 

“Stories? I guess.” He looked uneasy. It seemed he felt strange telling stories about himself most of the time, like he felt he was worth overlooking. The nice thing about being alone and not talking about yourself was it left no room for criticism.  


“About hunting?” Sam tried.  


That was a new one. They hadn’t spent time together alone since Sam had discovered why John never put roots down. “I guess I could,” he said after sizing Sam up. “If you want me to stop, just say when.”  


Sam never said when. Sam didn’t usually get a bed all to himself. It meant Dean was definitely gone, but at least he could stretch out without worrying he’d take up too much of the bed and get shoved. He fell asleep during a story about a witch who tried to bleed Bobby out, oddly comforted by the string of disjointed, self-interrupted stories.

***

Sam hardly ever had to explain himself at Uncle Bobby’s. He was treated like someone who was allowed to be upset over a nightmare. He shivered in the slight sweat he had from the temperature in the house, very quiet as he collected his thoughts.

“What was it about?” asked Uncle Bobby, offering Sam a glass of water.  


Sam carefully described the sensations. Of Dean, as a glass-eyed monster, attacking Sam with no regard for anything they’d ever shared, and of John being too calm, even a little pleased to see the display. Dean had been so cruel, but John, in his right mind, had been crueler. 

Sam shivered in his sweat-damp state, remembering the loneliness he’d felt in the dream. He had been pushing the heavy body away to no avail, yelling for Dean to stop.

“Well, what would help?” Uncle Bobby asked.  


Sam had to shrug again, feeling beyond help as he got up to fish his toothbrush out of his bag.

Bobby gave him a pat on the back in support as he trudged down the hall to the bathroom. By the time Sam got back, the rest of his stuff was unpacked for him. It didn’t feel like a violation of privacy or a punishment or any kind of mean-spirited gesture at all. It felt like someone who gave a damn was giving it.

***

Sam started summer school at a place near Bobby’s he and Dean had attended for a while on one of their longer stays. Sam didn’t want it to be one of the longer stays, but something about the way John had dropped him off had screamed finality. The thought of forever, when they discussed it in hushed voices here and there, made Sam and Bobby both very uncomfortable, but there was something peaceful about the idea of spending a month or two together, too. They always got along well, and they were able to be honest with each other.

“I figure this’ll be a good way for you to catch up,” Bobby explained. Sam just reached over and hugged him for a moment.   


“Thank you,” he said. He couldn’t put it into any other words that wouldn’t make him want to cry with relief. Any leg up he could get in the education department, he would gladly take.  


A small meow from the ground had him pulling away soon enough. Bobby leant down to pick Dax up, holding her close enough for Sam to pet. She was so soft, and went kind of lax in Bobby’s arms, seeming to enjoy it.

“Isn’t she cute?” Bobby asked. Sam nodded, transfixed.   


“I’ll work really hard,” Sam muttered, trying to make up for his lack of further comment a few minutes before.  


“I know how you are about school,” Bobby laughed. Sam smiled a little, sheepish. Of course Bobby knew that.    


When Bobby finally set her down on the floor again, she pranced off.

“She’ll warm up to you,” Bobby promised. “Remember how much my old dog loved you?”   


When the bus dropped Sam off after school every day, he attempted to coax Dax close, tempting her with little mouth sounds and fun toys. It was exciting, the progress he made in earning her trust over the weeks. When she finally walked over while he was watching Saturday morning cartoons just so she could sit next to him, he felt as if he had accomplished something so important to only him that he couldn’t really explain it.

It was nice when Bobby made an encouraging comment the moment he noticed. It made Sam feel not so alone.

***  


“Bobby? This is one of Dean’s favorite songs,” Sam said sadly, hearing the opening to _Ramblin’ Man_. He pushed his notebook aside, already feeling like he might cry.  


Bobby came out from the kitchen with dish-soapy fingers dripping onto the wood. Sam glanced at the man, full of concern and understanding, and remembered: He loved Dean too. “It is, huh?” Bobby wiped his hands on his untucked shirt. “Want me to turn it off?”

Sam took a moment to weigh his answer. “No.” Sam deserved a little reminder. Dean hadn’t always been so mean, even if it was sometimes hard to keep that in mind. 

Dean had done his best to take care of Sam when he shouldn’t have needed to try. They’d had a very easy relationship until Sam was about six and Dean had started scaring him with his worry. Sam knew a lot of what kept Dean sane was rhetoric straight from John’s twisted mind, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

Sam found himself singing quietly, eyes clouding with tears. Somehow, he still felt he needed to be strong for Dean, needed to not cry. He stopped for a moment, surprised when Bobby joined in. 

The DJ had a news article he wanted to bring up, and Bobby crossed the room to turn the volume down. “What if he never gets to hear it again? Each time I hear it, it’ll just be me,” Sam said with a sniff. Bobby turned to look at Sam.

The classics probably meant freedom to some people, but for Sam, they were tools of the establishment. They were a part of the prison Dean seemed like he had been built to live in, a prison decked out like a musty motel room with landscapes from every state of the coastal US on the walls.

He’d seen Dean play air guitar, sing, and even attempt to dance before. He’d seen, when they were sitting in places they shouldn’t have been, stealing illegal sips, Dean eyeing those attempting karaoke with an envy he wasn’t allowed to articulate. Dean was a free spirit, and Dad’s music actually suited him, even in the non-establishment way.

Bobby put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, steeling him with it. Sam had been able to tell Bobby his worries ever since they’d first met, even if Bobby hadn’t always seen things the same way.

“Do your homework,” Bobby said gently. “What’s that radio station you regular kids actually listen to again?”   


Sam told him, and he found himself staring at the radio as Bobby set it on the table near him, hearing stuff Dean would have turned his nose up at, since it was what all the cool kids were listening to.

Since it wasn’t what John was listening to, wasn’t what John was prescribing.

The change made it a little easier to focus on math problems again. But, somehow, it made him miss Dean, too.

***

When John came back, he was in the same strangely high spirits he’d been in when they'd left town, and a glance at Uncle Bobby showed Sam that he didn’t trust the change in John either. He even rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder as if to protect him from his own father.

Good.

“Why don’t you go say goodbye to Dax, Sam?” Sam took the manufactured opportunity to disappear upstairs, finding the cat perched on Bobby’s bedroom windowsill, viewing the black car parked on the gravel in anticipation. She let Sam pet her after a little coaxing. 

He focused on her, unable to make out most of the words as John and Uncle Bobby started discussing, and then discussing loudly, disagreeing, then arguing, like they usually did sooner or later. He would rather not know what they were arguing about. He felt safe at Uncle Bobby’s. He wanted to store up the sensation so he could make it last. 

Uncle Bobby tried to hide that he didn’t think John was a good father most of the time, but since he’d had a father who wasn’t a great father, and since he was smart and kind, he usually ended up making it very clear how he felt. Sam trusted his opinion on John more than anyone else’s except maybe poor Sully’s, wherever in Sam’s messed-up brain he’d finally taken root.

Dax got even closer to Sam and let him stroke her, responding favorably to him. He became fairly lost in the pretty shades of brown and the softness of her fur by the time Uncle Bobby called up for Sam to come down.

He didn’t miss the looks between the two men as he started brushing cat-hair off his shirt. He didn’t ask. He didn’t ask where they were going either, as his stuff was loaded into the trunk, as they headed out.

“I found Dean. We’re going to pick him up.”  


“What?” Sam was fairly sure he’d heard John wrong. He squinted against the sun, which was low in the sky.  


“I found Dean.”  


“What?” Sam asked, much more quietly, which gave him just a moment more to process.

Found him how? Lost in the forest behind the house, dazed and hungry? Found him with his throat ripped out by an angry friend of the Skinwalker? Was it an accidental self-inflicted gunshot wound?

“Is he alive?” Sam asked. John, in the front seat, miles away, just chuckled, the sound full and sure. Sam, feeling exactly the opposite, swallowed and waited for an answer he could actually do something with.

***

Sam was a smart kid, according to the educational system if not according to his father and brother, so he kept up with his classes well enough, even though there were chunks missing from his knowledge base. Sam’s goals in surviving school included completing as much work as possible, making sure his paperwork was in order, and sticking up for people who were having a hard time. 

He’d had teachers pity him before, or ignore him, especially after he missed his second day, his third day, ad infinitum. He’d had teachers not understand why he didn’t know something “basic” or “obvious” to the kids who had the luxury of regular attendance (most kids). He’d even had teachers call him a troublemaker or at least imply that he was one.

If there was any praise to be had, it was left at the top of his paper for him to see (and throw away later on John’s orders). Until one teacher, who was as kind as his eyes, said, “ [It’s](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=4.13_After_School_Special_\(transcript\)) good, Sam. It’s really good. Have you ever thought about pursuing writing?” 

Face to face, singled-out praise was new. It was important to him that Sam heard it, important to him that Sam understood he meant it. It was a compliment about something morally upstanding, too, which was the wildest part. Dean and other hunters who weren’t Dad offered compliments about how good with a weapon Sam was getting, how clever a liar he was, how well he was doing learning how to pick locks. An honest-to-God compliment about his writing had never been given to Sam face to face before. Hunters didn’t _care_. Writing was a creative process, a _constructive_ process. Even the ones who wrote the lore books didn’t seem to receive any praise. Not that Sam had heard anyway.

Maybe Sam kept writing about monsters because he hoped he’d find a teacher who knew them too, or maybe he did it because he knew John would be furious. Even though he’d “lied” from Mr. Wyatt’s perspective, because, officially, a story about hunting werewolf couldn’t have been true, Sam was given an A. Mr. Wyatt, ninth grade English teacher at Truman High, was almost as strange a thread as Sully in the fabric of Sam’s loose thread-filled life. 

Sam explained to the kind gaze that he couldn’t actually go into writing. He had to follow a legacy he’d never asked for, after all, and that should have stopped the teacher’s line of conversation. Only, the conversation went on, until Mr. Wyatt pulled the door to the cell Sam had been in his entire life wide open and asked if he wanted to come out.  


Sully had said Sam didn’t have to just do what John wanted him to do, but while Sully was a manifestation of Sam’s rebellious streak wearing rainbow suspenders, Mr. Wyatt had real hands, and Mr. Wyatt really had the key. He had broken away from his family’s wishes in order to become a teacher. He’d really _done_ it. Even Bobby hadn’t been able to break away from his father’s path, and he still sometimes found that regretful.

If Sam was good at writing...if he _did_  have a potential future doing it, or doing anything, anything at all, that wasn’t hunting...he could get away from destiny.

He'd start with the writing. He didn’t have many hunting stories yet, but it was certain he’d have more by the time he could walk out that open cell door. 

***

“How do you come up with this stuff?” Jess asked. 

Sam paused, embarrassed, as she looked over some of the pages in his old folder. He hadn’t even heard her coming in, appropriately lost in the past, though he should have been on his guard. Dean would call it getting soft. Hell, Sam would call it that, if pressed.

She’d asked him a question. He wanted to start replying in the next couple seconds before the silence grew too awkward. How _did_ he come up with his own graphite-and-ink immortalized memories? He had no idea how to answer that without potentially arousing suspicion, or worse, curiosity, which she had plenty of to spare. He tried to gauge whether or not she was interested in the words written on the page.

She was, he decided. “When did you start writing these?” she asked, trying to play it more casual. He appreciated the effort, and the out.

“I was fourteen,” he replied. He could still remember Mr. Wyatt’s words, the look on his face that was a lot like Jess’s was now: appreciative, thoughtful. _Nice._ Sam had probably only applied for college because of Mr. Wyatt, because of what he said about choosing his own path, because of the example he’d offered Sam as a non-surgeon in a family of surgeons.  


Jess whistled at the age. That made at least seven years Sam had been writing. It seemed longer, somehow, like a lifetime ago. Everything then seemed like a dream now that he was a student, safe, allowed to breathe.

“You should get some of it together and make a story. Seriously, Sam.” The praise warmed something old and abandoned inside of him even as he rolled his eyes. She was always trying to cheer him on, no matter how small his own potential seemed. 

He imagined writing an autobiography he would have to pretend he’d made up. There’d be meetings with publishers and, later, talk show interviews. Pretending it was fake would mean he would get to tell everyone out there the truth and have them see what he witnessed but he couldn’t be criticized for “lying”.

“Hmm.” Maybe it would even lead to him being able to tell Jess! He wasn’t supposed to tell her, and just about anyone might not take the news well. But having Jess, the person he loved the most, know why he woke up screaming, why he was afraid to have kids? It had to happen sometime, somehow, didn’t it? He couldn’t lie to her forever. 

***

Sam gasped awake, the sheet tangled around him, something else interrupting his mindless thrashing too. It was...a strong grip? A hand at his shoulder he had to stop so he could fly away. It would just take a quick motion. He wrapped a hand around the wrist.

 _Oh_.

He snapped into reality, running over some of what he knew to center himself.

The hand was his girlfriend’s, and they were both at Stanford in bed, not out in the woods where they’d had that party a few weeks back. Nothing was snarling at Sam, and he was not bleeding. His brother was off on a hunt somewhere, but probably not in immediate danger.  


“Sam?”  


He pulled her hand to his lips in the dim light, giving it a clumsy kiss. She sighed in relief before pushing herself up from the bed. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, an edge to the tone that cut through the darkness. 

“I’m craving something sweet! Let’s bake!” 

“Okay,” he had to mutter, letting her pull him up.

***

She worked so hard, but already he was forgiven for having a nightmare and waking her up. Already, she was cheerful. He looked at her, at what a hero truly looked like, as she stood in the light from the stove, from the fridge, from the lamp in the corner.

Like Jess, the lights were too bright for the darkness around them. He tried to adjust as he watched her do all the searching and the prep. Dean was _fine_ , was somewhere doing stupid things with their irredeemable father. There were no werewolves anywhere close, or ghosts he had to worry about. Sam still had a gun and a bag of salt and still had a silver bullet or two stowed away somewhere, if it came to that. 

The gun Sam had was the one John had given him at age nine, and the bullets were a gift from Bobby. The salt, Sam had bought on his own. Old habits died hard when your father drilled them into you systematically and spent time telling you everything else you ever did was worthless.

“You’re miles away, Sam,” Jess said in a sing-song voice, kissing Sam lightly on the cheek.  


"Wish I wasn’t,” he admitted. She patted his arm, singing a wordless tune as she combined ingredients. And when she handed him the mixer, explaining how it worked, instructing in a clear, focused voice, he held onto the task as steadily he held onto the mixer, grounded by the momentary control over what was going on.

“That’s it!” she praised. “Sam, is there anything you can’t do?”

Sam ducked his head with a laugh. “Give us a good night’s sleep?” His self-loathing was clear to Jess only because she knew him. She sighed and wrapped her arms around him until he grew uncomfortable. 

Noticing his discomfort, she released him, answering his fears without him voicing them. “Well, we’ll go to sleep again after we eat some cake.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Sam announced. It was a vintage refrain, bubble-wrapped with transparent humor to belie its fragility.   


“That’s wrong, Sam,” Jess said simply, lightly. “I don’t make cakes for guys who don’t deserve me. I never would.”  


***

“When you told me that was your first birthday cake, did you really mean that?” Jess asked as they iced the cake together.  


Sam nodded, drawn out of his worrying again. “Yeah. Absolutely.” 

As he watched, her mouth thinned in that familiar way that said if she ever officially met John Winchester she would make him feel guilt about Sam’s childhood the way that Sam did. 

***  


Jess had written a note and left it by the plate of cookies set out to welcome him home. “Missed you! Love you!” it said. Her cookies were already legendary to Sam, and he nibbled one as he thought about his brother.  


The trip with Dean had brought Sam some closure. Ever since the day Dad had said he should never come back and Dean had agreed with him, he’d had many dreams about Dean getting hurt.

That fear might finally be able to die an honorable death, and along with it, hopefully those dreams. The recurring dream he’d started having over the past week didn’t feature Dean at all. It was about Jess burning alive in a horrific way Sam had never heard of before, and it was so unnerving he had an appointment set up to talk to one of the campus counselors about it. 

He could still taste Jess’s cookies and didn’t want to let go of the feeling of home they brought. The smart thing to do would be to brush his teeth right away, but he felt truly tired, in that all-encompassing physical way that felt strangely honest no matter what the physical work entailed.

The drop of blood that fell on his forehead was confusing for a moment, wet, and familiar somehow. He glanced up, a gasp pulled from him. The haze of a remembered dream couldn’t prepare him for the sight. It was too visceral, like a punch to the gut, too personal in the ex-hunter world of student life, too close to home.

“No! Jess!” It was real. In seconds, the world started to melt around him, to glow hot, like he was finally seeing the truth. His life with Jess was the dream, and his wake-up call was the horror lighting the room. She was burning up, and he was glued to the bed, helpless. “Jess!” He was not as helpless as she was, though, split down the blood red middle and pinned like an insect to the foam board of the white ceiling. 

He should have woken up. He should have been screaming next to Jess, not screaming under her, looking up with smoke-irritated eyes. Everything was too hot, too quick, and choking. He screamed for her, screamed her name. He couldn’t run away, he couldn’t accept that it was happening that way. He’d rather burn with her in hopes of waking up—  


He was captured by the hunter, who was pulling him away, taking his last chance to fly to her.

Everything was burned out inside of him as they managed to escape with their lives. Everything was scorched and hollow.

***

Amelia Richardson was the most stubborn and misanthropic non-hunter Sam had ever met, but she understood grief. She understood not wanting to talk about it, she understood drinking it away, and she understood trying to draw happiness from life in between the patches of grief without having to _dwell_.

Amelia was not perfect, even by Sam’s reasoning, but they fit together in a way that had already lasted long enough for them to want a place together. 

Sam was flashing back at strange moments, out of it ever since the explosion, feeling more rattled by Dean’s Bone of a Saint disappearance than by any of the deaths he’d witnessed Dean go through before. 

He and Amelia had no shared history that could explain any of it for Sam and Sam, being depressed, didn’t have the heart or the energy to try to let her any further into his world than she already was. 

Not explaining his trauma led to unexplainable situations like brandishing a bat at a dumpster-diving raccoon, ducking around a corner at the sight of a party clown, violently changing the radio station during “Heat of the Moment”, and the ultimate embarrassment of the time he came home from work to Amelia making cookies. 

Amelia’s cooking was...less than restaurant quality, and she often got distracted when she tried to make something, which resulted in a lot of burnt food. Normally, that wasn’t a problem.

Amelia and Riot came in to greet Sam, both eyeing him curiously. He’d frozen in place, far away and manipulated into helplessness by the scent of burnt chocolate chip cookies and the beeping of the oven. He could see Jess burning from memory, he could see Mary burning from Azazel’s announcement, and he could see Amelia burning from the imagination he tried not to let affect him. 

Amelia started talking, but his ears were buzzing, and so was the alarm, drowning her out. Sam bolted away from the stimuli when Riot drew near. He found his way to the toilet instinctively. He vomited his fears into the bowl, and shuddered.

He had no idea how he was supposed to explain this one. But, then, he’d never really explained himself before, not to Amelia’s satisfaction. 

She was kneeling at his side, rubbing his back gently. “Please,” he choked, leaning over the toilet again to spit a few times. “Throw them away.”

He could hear it in her steps, in the way she punched buttons, lifted the pan, disposed of them in the trash bag, then took the trash out to the curb. He would be expected to at least give some sort of answer as to why chocolate chip cookies, practically an American staple, were a no-go. If he didn’t answer, eventually she would forget about it. She was a suspicious person, but she ultimately had faith in Sam.

He sighed, leaning over the bowl until she came back. She flicked the stove and bathroom fans on and handed him a glass of water, kneeling at his side again with a soft sigh that culminated what, coming from Amelia, amounted to a silent apology. Riot nosed at the two of them, flopping onto the floor as if to share the aftermath of the excitement.

Sam’s voice cracked when he told her, but so did one of the daunting walls inside of him. “When I was in college, my girlfriend burned to death, and I couldn’t save her.” The only time he and Dean had ever talked about that night was for Dean to make Sam feel guilty.  


“I’ve burned food before,” Amelia pointed out, no more understanding in tone than usual, but quieter, offering him more space to be his strange self than she might have. For her, those were sacrifices.  


“The last thing she made was...,” Sam continued.  


“Cookies. Got it.”

“I’d just eaten one, and the fire....”  


Amelia hugged Sam, resting her head on his shoulder. He turned to look at her, since the move was an oddly affectionate on for the two of them.

“You sure don’t have a lot of good things left, do you?” she asked.

He shook his head and leaned against her, waiting for the burnt smell of sugar and chocolate to dissipate.

***

“This is Harvey,” she said simply. “He’s in training.” 

After a glance at Amelia, who was making a rare on-break appearance, Sam took a hard look at the cuddly black and white cat in her arms, trying to suss out what exactly it was training for. He’d heard of cats having jobs at hotels and train stations, but that was as a mascot. Maybe Harvey was going to be an actor. But why would Amelia have him, then?

“Training to be a therapy cat,” Amelia said patiently. She became a thousand times more gracious when in close proximity with an animal.  


Therapy and cats. Dean wasn’t there to hear it, and Sam was almost glad. Two of Dean’s worst enemies had somehow joined forces.  


“‘What’s a therapy cat?’” Amelia asked for him, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer. It sounded embarrassing. “Well, it’s a cat that’s a hell of a lot more understanding than I am. Here.” She sat Harvey on Sam’s lap unceremoniously.

To make things less awkward, Sam pet the soft black fur. “Uh?”

“Therapy animals help lower blood pressure, help release endorphins, and help encourage recovery. All kinds of recovery.” Amelia didn’t like to talk about mental health, so she rushed through it. “Depression, anxiety, loneliness.”

“Yeah, it’s working. I don’t need you anymore,” Sam teased her, watching his hand pet Harvey so carefully.   


“You can keep watching your show; I’ll pick him up later.” Sam had let the TV fill the air without paying attention to it for the last half hour, so he wasn’t exactly watching, but he didn’t correct her assumption. He never did.  


“Thank you,” he called as Amelia left to head back to the clinic.

***

One winter morning, Sam’s long-lost grandfather crashed through time and emerged from a motel closet. In the time he spent in 2013, he drew a heavy comparison between Sam and his son John that, instead of being annoying or upsetting, was something to be proud of. Henry Winchester cared for his son, and John at nine had probably been something of a saint. His comparison had merely meant that Sam was more Man of Letters than hunter. 

Sam took immense pleasure in finally having a place in the monster-fighting world. He was a researcher and chronicler at heart, something of a nerdy librarian. The bunker they found lit a fire in his heart that had died with Jess.

Before the Cage, Sam had felt like writing stories again, building up a collection like the one that had burnt up along with her, but discovering the _Supernatural_ books had been the end of it. His stories weren’t his own to tell even on paper anymore, much less in person where Dean made sure their descriptions of events were always the same. And he couldn’t blame Chuck. Chuck hadn’t known.  


Something about Henry’s praise inspired Sam to try his hand at the craft again, though. It felt _good_  to get stuff off his chest sometimes, even if no one saw it but Sam himself.

***  


"You know, the Mayans invented hot chocolate,” Cas told Sam.

Sam glanced at him. They’d had a long, awkward extended stay in the bunker together. Cas had suggested calling Dean, the last person Sam wanted to talk to. Sam had tried to push too hard for them to get enough grace to find that horrible angel, and now he felt empty inside, so he was filling himself up with real hot cocoa. Cas had only wanted to save Sam, a “screw up”, because of a sandwich.

Still, though, it wasn’t that Cas meant to be cruel or clueless. And Sam liked his knowledge of human history. It gave them something to talk about that wasn’t his failures or Dean.

“I did know that,” Sam admitted. “But, it was cold.”  


“Yes, it was. Then, for centuries, it was used like you’re using it now.” Cas caught Sam’s quizzical expression. “As a medicine.”

Sam chuckled, but accepted the label.

“It works, too.” Cas counted off on his fingers. “It helps improve moods and fend off depression. It’s full of antioxidants that work better with heat. It helps prevent blood clots and internal hemorrhaging—which is good for someone so accident prone.”

Sam looked into the dark liquid and ignored the sting of Cas’s statement.

“It might even be able to treat dementia,” Cas added more softly, vaguely aware of Sam’s more pensive state.  


“Hmm,” Sam said thoughtfully around another sip. No, he hadn’t known any of that.   


“Do you know what gallic acid is, Sam?”  


Sam shook his head, turning to look at Cas openly. He didn’t know, but he was about to find out.

***

"[It](http://themegalosaurus.tumblr.com/post/128725187413/a-little-insight-into-sams-childhood-from-a) felt like playing with toys, but in the real world,” Sam explained. “You know? It seemed...fun. A chance to be someone else for a little while.”

“I think I get it,” Maeve said after a moment. “I do choir, you know. Being a part of the show on tech is awesome. I like to sing, but I have heinous stage fright. I could never be up front like Marie. But it’s nice to be part of a choir performance. It’s calming and energizing at the same time. I think,” she said conspiratorially, “over time, it’s actually lowered my stress level by...a lot.”

“That sounds really helpful,” Sam said seriously. “I wish I could sing.”  


“Singing is supposed to fight loneliness and depression. You should really try it,” she added pointedly. “You don’t have to sing well to benefit from it.”  


“Yeah, thanks, Maeve,” Sam deadpanned. How was it that she kept making cracks at him? He must have been an easy target. Strange how he’d been so much more popular when he was in high school himself.  


***

“This whole case just...yuck. I think I’m gonna go home and have me a drink,” Dean said. “And a shower. Or two.”

Sheriff Donna gave a nod of sympathy. “Well, you know what I like to do when I get stressed out? I like to bake.”  


“Oh yeah?” Sam could picture her cooking. It was a cute image; she was adorable, and she obviously had a passion for food that matched Dean’s.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I give most of it away now. But bakin’s good. It’s kind of meditative, and it uses most of the senses. Sometimes even all of ‘em!” she laughed.  


“Nice,” Sam said, considering what it’d be like to try his hands at a cake all alone. 

“What, are you gonna try it or somethin’?” Dean teased.  


“What? No, get out of here. I’m gonna have a drink too.” But the real answer was yes. “[All](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=11.07_Plush_\(transcript\)) right, I think it's, uh, time we gotta get out of here,” Sam said before he gave himself away.

***

As it turned out, the amazing Sully, Sam’s childhood hero, had never been imaginary. He was a Zanna, and he loved Sam for real, and not just because Sam had invented him.

It was a pity the reunion had to come at the loss of Sully’s friends’ lives. They were burying a mermaid who had bled out in a pool, hoping the child’s trauma would stop at imaginary abandonment.

Sam had always been looked out for by Sully, but now, an adult too, he could return the favor. “[How](http://transcripts.foreverdreaming.org/viewtopic.php?f=105&t=24093) you holding up, Sully?”

Sully was surprised that he thought to ask. “I’m fine. How are you, Sam?” he asked earnestly in return.

Sam gave it a quick thought. No one even thought to ask him that anymore, unless it was Dean trying to blame him for whatever was going on.   


Honestly, though, in a lot of ways, Sam was doing better than he ever had, even if the thought of going back to the Cage was unsettling.

“Aces,” he said. Then, he dug a little more.    


___

Quote Sources:

  * [4x13 After School Special](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=4.13_After_School_Special_\(transcript\))  

  * [10x05 Fan Fiction deleted scene](http://themegalosaurus.tumblr.com/post/128725187413/a-little-insight-into-sams-childhood-from-a)  

  * [11.07x Plush](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=11.07_Plush_\(transcript\))  

  * [11x08 Just My Imagination](http://transcripts.foreverdreaming.org/viewtopic.php?f=105&t=24093)  




Sources Regarding Therapeutic Benefits:

  * [Pet Therapy](http://www.pawsforpeople.org/who-we-are/benefits-of-pet-therapy/)  

  * [Writing About Traumatic Events](http://apt.rcpsych.org/content/11/5/338)  

  * [Drinking Hot Cocoa](http://www.mnn.com/food/beverages/stories/7-health-benefits-of-drinking-hot-cocoa)  

  * [Singing in a Group](http://ideas.time.com/2013/08/16/singing-changes-your-brain/)  

  * [Baking](http://www.goodnet.org/articles/5-reasons-baking-good-for-mental-health)




End file.
